install theme
Reading The Museum of Innocence was a long and peculiar journey. I borrowed it from the library just a week before leaving for Istanbul, but it’s stuff long pages and time weirdly passing prevented me from finishing it. By the day I visited the Museum, I was only halfway. But it made no matter - the Museum was beautiful, it was a wonderful experience, very deep and emotional, I even cried a bit at the last room, the end of it. It’s a book worth reading in itself, but with the museum by its side, it’s a true masterpiece. I remember the day clearly, Istanbul was rainy and even foggy and it all added to the magic of the story, to its ideas on time and space. Truly I find Pamuk too obsessive for my taste, too mad - only in Romania did I finish the book, angry at the ending and crying just a bit. 

Reading The Museum of Innocence was a long and peculiar journey. I borrowed it from the library just a week before leaving for Istanbul, but it’s stuff long pages and time weirdly passing prevented me from finishing it. By the day I visited the Museum, I was only halfway. But it made no matter - the Museum was beautiful, it was a wonderful experience, very deep and emotional, I even cried a bit at the last room, the end of it. It’s a book worth reading in itself, but with the museum by its side, it’s a true masterpiece. I remember the day clearly, Istanbul was rainy and even foggy and it all added to the magic of the story, to its ideas on time and space. Truly I find Pamuk too obsessive for my taste, too mad - only in Romania did I finish the book, angry at the ending and crying just a bit. 

Read Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell. An amazing work of a book. Never seen such style, such force. It’s the second or so book that made me think wow, I didn’t know you could do that with literature. It’s really a lesson in writing, a lesson in story-telling. The way the six stories meet & complete one another, together with their all over complexity & symbols make it a book that leaves you satiated. 

Read Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell. An amazing work of a book. Never seen such style, such force. It’s the second or so book that made me think wow, I didn’t know you could do that with literature. It’s really a lesson in writing, a lesson in story-telling. The way the six stories meet & complete one another, together with their all over complexity & symbols make it a book that leaves you satiated. 

Going back to the primordial reason behind this tumblr blog: documenting the reading experience itself, the external influences when flipping pages, what makes one choose one particular book at one particular time. 
Animal Farm by George Orwell is a book I’ve wanted to read for a long time and, seeing it in this beautiful new-ish edition on the library shelf, I picked it up, knowing it won’t be much trouble. Well, fate decided that I shall choose to bring it everywhere with me at FanFest, Rosia Montana, as it was not too heavy. And so, one electrifying Thursday night, by the end of the Luna Amara concert, a heavy storm fell through all things, from the sky to the skin of people, tents and backpacks. The book got soaked and stayed unread until peaceful Monday afternoon, on a green couch in Vulcan, when it angered me much, as it is hard to read how freedom becomes slavery without becoming at least a bit angry. 

Going back to the primordial reason behind this tumblr blog: documenting the reading experience itself, the external influences when flipping pages, what makes one choose one particular book at one particular time. 

Animal Farm by George Orwell is a book I’ve wanted to read for a long time and, seeing it in this beautiful new-ish edition on the library shelf, I picked it up, knowing it won’t be much trouble. Well, fate decided that I shall choose to bring it everywhere with me at FanFest, Rosia Montana, as it was not too heavy. And so, one electrifying Thursday night, by the end of the Luna Amara concert, a heavy storm fell through all things, from the sky to the skin of people, tents and backpacks. The book got soaked and stayed unread until peaceful Monday afternoon, on a green couch in Vulcan, when it angered me much, as it is hard to read how freedom becomes slavery without becoming at least a bit angry. 

Last week, looking through my books, I randomly chose A thief’s journal by Jean Genet, which surprised me much - I don’t know what I was expecting but certainly not this narrative of immorality, vagabonding, homelessness, dirt and begging - although it can’t keep me reading for long. At the library, I jumped on Out of Africa by Karen Blixen, which kept me busy for a few days with beautiful descriptions and interesting cultural perspectives. 

Last week, looking through my books, I randomly chose A thief’s journal by Jean Genet, which surprised me much - I don’t know what I was expecting but certainly not this narrative of immorality, vagabonding, homelessness, dirt and begging - although it can’t keep me reading for long. At the library, I jumped on Out of Africa by Karen Blixen, which kept me busy for a few days with beautiful descriptions and interesting cultural perspectives. 

After five months of travelling (with a six month break) and my quest to only read it when I’m not-at-home, I finally finished this (On the road by Kerouac) amazing breathless book, epitome of a generation, less and more than I expected and ultimately quite crazy and interesting enough.
Similarly, At the Cafe by Errico Malatesta, which I carried in my bag for over a year, has finally been read although, I must say, it’s the kind of book I have to discuss, think about, and read again sometime. It’s position on anarchy is something to consider, although not to be taken entirely as it is.

After five months of travelling (with a six month break) and my quest to only read it when I’m not-at-home, I finally finished this (On the road by Kerouac) amazing breathless book, epitome of a generation, less and more than I expected and ultimately quite crazy and interesting enough.

Similarly, At the Cafe by Errico Malatesta, which I carried in my bag for over a year, has finally been read although, I must say, it’s the kind of book I have to discuss, think about, and read again sometime. It’s position on anarchy is something to consider, although not to be taken entirely as it is.

Forty rules of love by Elif Shafak was just so beautiful I can barely talk or write about it. I need to breathe in - it was a book that spoke to me secretly, a book I loved, a book with words that are alive, a book whose characters will stay with me, whose sentences will stay with me, as they made my heart skip beats and my eyes water down salty tears of emotion and life. 

Forty rules of love by Elif Shafak was just so beautiful I can barely talk or write about it. I need to breathe in - it was a book that spoke to me secretly, a book I loved, a book with words that are alive, a book whose characters will stay with me, whose sentences will stay with me, as they made my heart skip beats and my eyes water down salty tears of emotion and life. 

During May and June I haven’t read much. I kept reading On the road by Kerouac, as I was on the road, and Breve storia di quasi tutto by Bill Bryson, to refresh my Italian and improve my knowledge of the world. Back home with C., I received this wonderful gift - I am Malala, by Malala Yousafzai, which I read in two days and was profoundly impressive as a biography. We checked out Hot&Heavy by Virgie Tovar and Top Sights of Washington DC. Also, to improve my French, I’m slowly reading the Journal of Anais Nin. Ah, and just the stories from Joel Ben Izzy’s The beggar king and the secret of happiness.

During May and June I haven’t read much. I kept reading On the road by Kerouac, as I was on the road, and Breve storia di quasi tutto by Bill Bryson, to refresh my Italian and improve my knowledge of the world. Back home with C., I received this wonderful gift - I am Malala, by Malala Yousafzai, which I read in two days and was profoundly impressive as a biography. We checked out Hot&Heavy by Virgie Tovar and Top Sights of Washington DC. Also, to improve my French, I’m slowly reading the Journal of Anais Nin. Ah, and just the stories from Joel Ben Izzy’s The beggar king and the secret of happiness.

Anonymous asked:
Are you reading anything at the moment?

It is true that in the last year I haven’t read as many books as I usually read - I’ve been so busy with other things. In the autumn of 2013 I’ve traveled in Western Europe, in winter and spring I studied & took dozens of online courses, in the beginning of summer 2014 I traveled in the Balkans & then been busy with university admission stuff. I did browse quite a few books though, I’ll post them soon enough. Thank you for the question. I do hope to come back to reading intensively as soon as I find the trick of managing my time more effectively. 

Trying to learn Greek, reading this and that on Greece. 

Trying to learn Greek, reading this and that on Greece. 

Acluofobia by A. R. Deleanu. It is maybe because, after his first book, Imblanzitorul Apelor, I was expecting so much, that this one didn’t charm me as much. Or maybe because I’m not a big horror fan, and can’t read through the lines and understand this kind of literature as well as avid fans. Or maybe because I was paying so much attention to his style, his writing, his rhythm – which I still like – that I did not get as caught in it. Or maybe, it wasn’t me who didn’t understand much, but it was the plot itself, the making of the stories too obscure, just like very polished parts of a bigger picture, like the very clean, beautifully painted foot of a whole sculpture. I can’t tell, really – I can only tell that it wasn’t as good as I expected it to be, and that most of the stories, while being pretty well written, felt like unfinished, and the female characters, superficial. The ones I liked most were “Trenul umbrelor”, because of its visual picture it paints, “Toma. Administrator”, because of its cyclical structure, “Omul cu chip de cal” because it makes half-sense in a beautiful way and, well, maybe even “Jos, in lumea lor”, although it seems to me too … unexplained. Maybe even “Negru ca o soapta fara rost”, which is a bit too brusque. 

Acluofobia by A. R. Deleanu. It is maybe because, after his first book, Imblanzitorul Apelor, I was expecting so much, that this one didn’t charm me as much. Or maybe because I’m not a big horror fan, and can’t read through the lines and understand this kind of literature as well as avid fans. Or maybe because I was paying so much attention to his style, his writing, his rhythm – which I still like – that I did not get as caught in it. Or maybe, it wasn’t me who didn’t understand much, but it was the plot itself, the making of the stories too obscure, just like very polished parts of a bigger picture, like the very clean, beautifully painted foot of a whole sculpture. I can’t tell, really – I can only tell that it wasn’t as good as I expected it to be, and that most of the stories, while being pretty well written, felt like unfinished, and the female characters, superficial. The ones I liked most were “Trenul umbrelor”, because of its visual picture it paints, “Toma. Administrator”, because of its cyclical structure, “Omul cu chip de cal” because it makes half-sense in a beautiful way and, well, maybe even “Jos, in lumea lor”, although it seems to me too … unexplained. Maybe even “Negru ca o soapta fara rost”, which is a bit too brusque.